


And Liquor Will Always Be Cheaper Than Therapy

by formalizing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Dean, Dubious Consent, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest, Someone being taken advantage of in rock paper scissors, Topping from the Bottom, Virgin Sam, application of concepts learned in health class, crackier than it ought to be considering the subject matter, due to the fuck or die, told entirely from the point of view of someone facing a wall and not participating at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formalizing/pseuds/formalizing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>blindfold_spn request: “Sam and Dean face a fuck or die curse, and for whatever reason, John has to stay in the same room. Embarrassed!boys would be great.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Liquor Will Always Be Cheaper Than Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/4508.html?thread=5756316#t5756316).

There are about a million places John would rather be than here; Texas in a heat wave, Canada in winter, back on that beach in Vietnam. Pretty much anything would be better than staring at the off-white walls of the quaint, suburban house the witch they were hunting called home, trying not to think about it as his sons argue about which of them is getting fucked to break the curse they managed to stumble themselves into.

“Jesus, Sam, you can barely _walk_ you’re so klutzy, and you expect me to let you get near my ass?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Sam hisses, Dean’s grunt a sure sign that Sam punched him in the arm. John has to admit, Sam is pretty unsure with his new height. They’ve had their cards charged for damages more than a few times lately thanks to all the broken lamps and coffee makers. “I’m not letting _you_ put it in me. You’ve been in more girls than motel rooms.”

John snorts. Kid’s got a point.

“Just means I’m experienced.”

“Yeah, or _diseased_.”

John can almost feel the elbow to the gut Sam gets for that one.

“Sun’ll be coming up sooner than you think,” John speaks to the wall, casual like he’s just making an observation, not reminding his _sons_ that they need to _get busy_.

Dean coughs and Sam shuffles his feet, oppressive atmosphere back again.

“Should we… I mean, I guess we could just throw for it?” Sam suggests hesitantly.

“Yeah… yeah, sure, whatever,” Dean replies.

Everyone except Dean knows exactly how this is going to play out as they count down from three and show their hands.

“God dammit!”

Like there was ever a chance Dean wasn’t going to throw scissors.

“On your knees, dude,” Sam chirps happily, and John’s going to have to have a very awkward talk with his youngest about taking advantage of his brother. Later. When they’re not getting naked right behind him.

“Fuck you,” Dean mutters, but John can hear him shucking his clothes and doing just that.

“ _Actually_ …” Sam starts, almost intolerably smug now that his ass is off the line, and John clears his throat before Dean can whip around and knock his brother out cold.

“Sam, just shut up and—” John’s throat closes up after that, because he just can’t bring himself to say _fuck your brother_. “Just shut up.”

To his credit, Sam does. There’s a bit more shuffling and the sound of the bottle of oil they’d found being opened, then Dean’s surprised hiss of, “Shit! S’cold!”

“Don’t be a baby, Dean,” Sam mutters, but he doesn’t sound so sure of himself now. John tries very hard not to wonder if this isn’t Sam’s first time.

“You can call me a baby when _you’ve_ got a fucking freezing cold finger in your ass.”

There are just so many things about tonight that John wants to permanently bleach from his mind. Like the way Sam doesn’t respond to that, and without the distraction of voices, John can hear that things are getting… squelchy. Well, at least he’d heeded John’s warning about proper lubrication being the key. John had meant for the _car_ , but it was nice to know that Sam could apply the lesson to other facets of life.

Dean coughs quietly after a bit, a tight, controlled sound, and John can _hear_ the embarrassment in it. John swears he’s not even going to bat an eye when Dean drinks the bar dry after this.

“Think you’re pretty much cleared for take-off, there, Sam,” he mutters thickly, muffled from where he’s likely burying his face in his arms.

“Just… hang on a minute,” Sam says, distracted. “I learned about this in health class. If I can just…”

Dean starts into a choked-off little whine, pounding his fist into the floor just once, and John revises his earlier promise; Dean can drink the bar dry _if_ he can beat John to it.

“Prostate,” Sam announces, obviously pleased with himself. “No reason it’s gotta be miserable.”

Dean’s a little more prepared for it the next time, managing to limit himself to just a sharp gasp. Then another, and another, culminating in a low groan that he just can’t seem to hold back.

“ _Sam_ ,” he forces between clenched teeth, and John honestly can’t tell if he’s trying to tell him to get the fuck on with it, or _encouraging_ him.

Either way, Sam murmurs something too quietly for John to hear and stops doing… whatever it was that he was doing.

The next noise from Dean doesn’t sound quite so pleasurable.

“Fucking hell,” he growls, voice tight like it always is when he’s in pain and trying not to let on how much.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sam pants frantically. “Does it hurt?”

“Only if you think shoving the business end of a baseball bat up there would _hurt_.”

Winchesters are big generally speaking, and Sam himself is bigger than most, so it’d make sense that he’s getting big _all over_ , but John still wipes a hand down his face like that will somehow clear away the mental image of it.

“I can… I can stop?” Sam offers, breathless in ways that John is determinedly not thinking about. “We can try more oil and… stuff.”

Dean barks out a laugh and mutters something under his breath that sounds like, “Not enough oil in the _world_.”

“Just keep going,” he says eventually. “ _Slow_.”

Dean’s deep, deliberate breathing signals Sam starting up again, and it seems to take forever, Dean’s breaths getting more and more labored until Sam murmurs, “Almost…” and then, finally, they both sigh heavily in relief.

There’s nothing for a beat or two, then someone shifts, arching up or pushing down, and both boys gasp before starting to move in earnest.

John can ignore the slap of skin on skin easily enough, even as it picks up pace, but it’s not so simple to tune out the sounds his sons are making. Sam’s whispering what he probably expects is a reassuring stream of words, one that actually amounts to, “So good, oh god. Can’t even—please, Dean, _gotta_... so tight.” And Dean started off with nothing but pained grunts and muttered curses, but Sam must eventually get it right, because there’s a big jump from near-silent suffering to the litany of “ _Yes_ , fuck, c’mon, just a little... _there_. That’s it, right fucking there, don’t move… don’t move…” that follows.

Around the time John’s contemplating whether having both his sons alive and well is _really_ worth this, the shield of magic holding them in the room begins to shimmer. It shines, delicate and prismatic against the walls, swelling and twisting until Sam moans, muffled like he’s got his mouth around his brother’s shoulder as he does it, and the magic pops, harmless like a soap bubble.

Dean’s answering groan follows John as he books it out of the house and to the car, already planning how he’s going to repress, deny, and _drown_ the memory of this night.


End file.
